


do what you do and youll never be done

by Polyhexian



Series: Okay but what if they were ace tho [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ace Drift, Ace Whirl, Asexual Character, Explicit Sexual Content, I genuinely am not sure when this takes place, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Second Person, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, maybe its an au i dunno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyhexian/pseuds/Polyhexian
Summary: “Hi, Whirl,” Drift says, a boggling set of words.“Uh,” you say, looking around for the trick, but you don’t see anything, “Hi?”“I wanted to talk to you,” he starts, putting his arms on the table and folding his palms together, “I’ve kind of noticed something about you that’s worrying me.”“Uh… what?”“Do you know what sexual self harm is?” he asks, giving you a bizarrely earnest look.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate (Transformers), Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl (Transformers), First Aid/Whirl (Transformers), Tailgate/Whirl, Whirl/Hubcap
Series: Okay but what if they were ace tho [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772830
Comments: 21
Kudos: 161





	do what you do and youll never be done

**Author's Note:**

> This is a weird one, i'm having one of those days where i want to ramble fanfiction as an outlet for my own weird feelings and problems so like. i guess this one is just one big trigger warning for character having a bad relationship with sex? i just wanna make sure the warning is big an upfront

“So, which part are you moping about, Whirl?” Hubcap asks as he sits, his voice hoarse with static and weariness, “Flanker being dead, or Blocker going crazy?”

You turn your single ugly optic away from your pint of energon and up towards the intruder in your personal space with as much ire as you can muster, hoping it will show somehow even without a faceplate. “Who cares about them, huh? Barely knew the scrapheaps.”

“Hm,” Hubcap hums noncommittally, grabbing a bottle the wall and pouring himself a tankard before he sits back down, “I knew they were close, but like, I didn’t know they were so close Flanker being dead would send Blocker off the deep end.”

“They were fragging,” you tell him absently, “I dunno, might have been conjunx or somethin’.”

“Really?” Hubcap tilts his faceplate toward you, interest obvious, “How’d you know that?”

“I was fraggin’ em both,” you snort through your vocalizer, “Burnin’ off steam, you know? Primus, they never shut up ‘bout each other, and then pretended it was all cool and casual later. Couple of idiots.” You top off your drink.

“Huh,” he swirls his engex, wrinkling his nose, “maybe that’s why he went nuts. All ‘shoulda coulda woulda, can’t now,’ or whatever.”

“Prolly,” you agree, chugging through your manual intake, “That’s why you don’t get them regrets, you know. Do whatever the pit you want, ‘cuz we all know we’re gonna get what’s comin’ to us sooner or later. This is the _Wreckers_ , not sparkling education camp.”

“Amen to that,” Hubcap murmurs.

“On that note,” you say, “I just lost my only two fragbuddies on the pitship, so. You interested in burning off steam?”

Hubcap blinks, as if surprised, “What, me?”

“Yeah, you. Why not you?”

“I barely know you.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to do the acts with me, I’m askin’ if you wanna plow my aft because it’s good stress relief between suicide missions.”

“Hm,” Hubcap says, and he eyes you up and down like an old energon cube, deciding whether or not you’re too gross to bother eating, “Yeah, alright.”

“Sick,” you say, raising your pint ever so, offering a cheers. He accepts, tapping the lip of his glass to yours and you both chug your remainders.

He seems anxious back in your room. Apprehensive. If he wants to change his mind, though, he doesn’t say that, and when you bend over your desk so he doesn’t have to look at your face (Primus, who would want to?) he finally steps up and grabs your hips. He _does_ plow your aft like you wanted, and even better, when you yell at him to hit you, he _does_ , crumpling plating and bending kibble beneath his servos. Your valve burns with friction, spike kept locked in its housing, and all over you _hurt_ good, the way you want to. By the time your done you’re covered in energon and transfluid and he doesn’t want to be here anymore, also like the way you want.

* * *

“You’re a Wreckers fanboy, ain’t you?” you ask, leaning on the wall of the medical bay. It’s dark in here, with most of the lights off, and only First Aid present.

“What?” he asks, looking up, “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“You’re big into Wreckers lore, yeah?”

“I mean, yes, I really enjoy reading Wreckers: Declassified, but-”

“You know I was a Wrecker, huh?”

“You were?” he snaps his helm up, suddenly rapt in his attentions, “What’s your name?”

“Whirl,” you tell him, crossing your freakishly shaped arms.

“You _were_ a Wrecker!” he says, standing up, “You were discharged though- what happened?”

“You know how it is,” you say, leaning off the wall and crossing the room to his desk, “Things get crazy, you get crazy, you hurt one of your teammates by mistake, they tell you you been a Wrecker too long and it’s makin’ you too crazy.”

“Oh,” he breathes, as you sit on his desk, hiking one knee onto it and leaning forward toward him, “Like Blocker?”

“Yeah,” you say, lowering your voice, “You know, me’n Blocker used to be fragbuddies.”

“Really?” First Aid says, looking up at you, the way you loom over him, “Was that… How things were, in the Wreckers?”

“Oh, yeah,” you nod, raising a claw to trail along the plating of his midsection absently, and he shivers under your touch, “We used to all be like that, you know. Real close knit group, ‘n all that. I can tell you all about who’s best in the berth, and all that.”

“I knew it,” he says, and your claw touches the treads of the tires below his arms, “I _knew_ it was like that.”

“Who’s your favourite?”

“What?”

“Who’s your favourite Wrecker?” you repeat.

“Oh, definitely Springer,” he says, enthusiastically, collapsing backward into his chair as you lean forward again, twisting to crawl over his desk. He doesn’t even look at the papers you’re messing up, “He’s _so_ well built, and just- like, he’s amazing-”

“Totally,” you agree, holding his chair with one claw and letting the other drop to stroke the inside of one of his thighs, “You should see his spike. It’s exactly as big as you’d think a triple changer’s was, all green and grey with little yellow bio lights, and-”

That’s how far you get before he grabs your shoulders and flips you over, pinning you against the desk. Things go flying, you hear glass break on the ground, papers sloff off discarded as he climbs on top of you, fans cycling embarrassingly loud.

“Primus,” he swears, grinding his interface panel down against your own, servos shaking as they run up your midsection, “Keep talking.”

“Ooh, I don’t hear that one often,” you purr, “One time ol’ Springs took my aft right after a fight, right there planetside-” First Aid groans as his spike pressurizes, just like that, right there in the medbay, “Right on the _ground_. You shoulda seen him, he was running so hot he was covered in condensation, leaving green paint all over my aft, and-”

It’s a little difficult to keep going the way he bends your spinal strut and absolutely _destroys_ your valve with a _damn_ good spiking, but you do your very, very best to confirm all of his wildest Wrecker fucking fantasies as you make up all kinds of crazy stories about Springer’s spike. 

* * *

“Hey, fanboy!” you say, rapping on First Aid’s habsuite door with the back of your claw, “You ain’t been outta your room in two weeks. You dead in there?”

“Go _away_ , Whirl!” he yells back from the other side. His vocalizer cracks and pops, like he’s been crying. You hate that sound. Your helm is the simplest design conceivable, only serving to hold your brain and power a single optic. It can’t emote, express, can’t ingest energon, and it definitely can’t cry.

“I’m just sayin’, I miss playin’ doctor with you, you know, like, the sexy kind, and also, like, Ratchet don’t fuckin’ like me so I much rather have you patch me up than him, and-”

“Leave me _alone_ Whirl! I’m _grieving!_ ”

“Ambulon’s been dead two weeks, mate, you’re done grieving now, it’s time to come out of your room and face the sunshi-”

The door snaps open. Wow, he’s definitely been crying, his visor isn’t even snug to his face anymore, rust stains all around it. He looks like shit.

“Can you just be fucking normal for five seconds and not rub it in my face that my best friend is _dead_?” he snarls.

“Oh, come on, I lost plenty of friends,” you say, waving your claws, “You know, when I was in the Wreckers, we-”

“Stop! Stop, I don’t want to _hear_ it!” he snaps, “I don’t _care_ what you did in the Wreckers. Ambulon was my _friend_ and I _care_ that he’s dead!”

“What, he leave you without a leg to stand on?” you snicker, unable to resist the joke, and he punches you right in the helm before he shuts the door and locks it again.

You lay on the floor for awhile and giggle at your joke and how good that right hook hurt before you leave.

* * *

Tailgate is sitting alone, which is unusual for him, struggling with his drink like he’s never used a straw before. You cycle your optic down as you watch him in his lonely booth, and it suddenly occurs to you that like, maybe he _hasn’t_ used a straw before. He said he was like, unconscious for basically ever, right? Who woulda told him about straws? Certainly not hornhead and his corpse face, he don’t need one. You glance back at Swerve, who’s busy shooing some of his serving drones around, and grab a straw from under the bar and your drink and stand up.

The noise he makes when you plop down across from him is _adorable_. You pluck his drink from his servos and drop the straw in it, handing it back to him.

“You ain’t got lips, dummy,” you say to him, “straws help with the suction.”

“What?” he says, then seems to register what you’re saying, grabbing his glass and trying again with the straw. His visor lights up and his optics snap back up to you.

“Hey, you’re right! Thanks, Whirl.”

“Whatever,” you sniff, immediately feeling on the spot in his gaze, “next time you’re embarrassing yourself ‘cuz you can’t do something good just watch somebody else who ain’t got a real mouth or somethin’ and see what they do.”

“That makes sense,” he says, completely fucking ignoring every mean thing you just said, “I noticed Chromedome always uses a straw, but I guess it didn’t really occur to me why.” He pauses, and then tilts his head to the side. “Where’s your mouth, anyway?”

“Oh, it’s like-” you lean forward so you can show him the intake at the base of your neck, “My helm ain’t fitted for extraneous function.”

“Whoa,” he says, staring at it like it’s not super weird or gross, “Neat. Does it ever get, like, clogged? Cuz sometimes I get this weird thing where like, stuff gets stuck in the little rotating parts and I dunno how I’m supposed to fix it.”

“Just, like, run it forwards and backwards a coupla times, and like, gargle some hot water. Usually loosens it up for me,” you take another swig of engex and he sits back, swirling his own with his new straw.

“I’ll try that! Man, it’s really weird, sometimes, cuz like, my chassis is so old now, you know, and everybody else has been rebuilt a bunch of times so it’s like nobody has the same internals as I do,” he sighs, “Like, you know, I can’t read EM fields! Everybody’s got these _EM Fields_ now and I can’t even sense them!” He throws his servos in the air, frustrated. “Like, what even are those!”

“Tell me about it,” you groan, rolling your optic, “I used to be able to read ‘em, but my rebuild ain’t got those sensors anymore.”

“What, seriously?” Tailgate says, servos dropping and optics snapping back to you.

“Yeah, but I figure gettin’ to sense everybodys emoooootions all the time is lame, anyway. Folk keep tellin’ me my field is a mess and it’s real distractin’ and awful and I should like, pull it in or whatever, but what do I care, heh, that’s their problem now that I’m EM blind.”

“I wonder what my field is like,” Tailgate mumbles.

“Probably a lot more pleasant,” you shrug, “ask Cyc about it. He’s prolly tuned to you 24/7.”

Tailgate’s shoulders hike together, visibly embarrassed, “Maybe.”

“Anyway, I’m guessin’ you only got the one set of fans in there, too, huh?” you ask, pointing at his chest.

“Huh?” Tailgate says, looking down, “Yeah, should I have more?”

“Yeah,” you nod, “I got downgraded on that one too. It’s a total bitch not melting like that if you do anything like, remotely strenuous. You wanna go get a water cooling system installed. Most folk around here are gonna have the standard tri-set of fans, that’s the shit forged mech get you know, but we got science and we can do better that Primus or whatever. Heh.”

“You really know a lot about stuff like this, huh?” Tailgate says, shaking his head, “The functionists must have really downgraded you, huh?”

You look down at your drink, uncomfortable, then take a swig, finishing your glass, and packing those feelings away for never, “Yeah. Anyway I figure ain’t nobody toldja slag like that cuz Cyc has the empathic reasoning of a rock and ain’t nobody else here your age. I mean, not me neither, but you know.”

“Yeah,” his voice is distracted, lost in thought, “I, uh- I have another question, but it might be kind of, like, rude?”

“You just asked about my fragging empurata, legs, you can’t get more rude than that,” you say, and he flinches, but that doesn’t make you happy like it usually does for some reason, “You know I don’t give a scrap about bein’ rude.”

“No, no, I mean it’s-” he fiddles with his glass a bit, staring at his servos, before he leans forward and whispers, “It’s about, like, interface.”

“Oh. Ooooooh,” you say, cycling your optic open, “I clock ya.”

“Listen, okay, I have _scoured_ the internet trying to figure this slag out,” he hisses, “and I _cannot_ figure out how my equipment works.”

You can’t help yourself. You start laughing. He smacks you.

“Whirl! It’s not _funny!_ ”

“It’s _so_ funny,” you giggle, trying to keep your voice down, “That _sucks_ though.”

“Yeah! I _know!_ ” he hisses, covering his face, “It’s the _worst!_ ”

“So you got like, an older model set down there, huh?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says miserably, “and I don’t know how it _works_.”

“Hrrm,” you hum, tapping the underside of your helm with one claw, thoughtfully, “Well, you know, your pal Whirlibird has done a lot of fragging in his time with a lot of folk with different downstairs equipment. Maybe I know how it works.”

“Will you come take a look?”

You stop, blinking, as you suddenly realize what _taking a look_ means. “Uh,” you start, uncertainly, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah! Come on, let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now!”

“Uh, okay,” you say, as he grabs one of your claws and drags you out of the room, confused.

This is a bad idea. Like, this is a bad idea, right? You _like_ Tailgate, as much as you can like anyone, he’s fun, he thinks you’re crazy, but he doesn’t hate you like a lot of folk do, and that’s fun enough, maybe you don’t like, want to ruin that? Frag. He’s asking you to look at his-

“Your habsuite is this way, right?” he asks, still pulling you along.

“Uh, yes, uh- why are we going to _my_ habsuite?” you ask, suddenly self conscious about your wrecked room.

“Cuz you got a single,” he says, as if it’s obvious, “and Cyclonus is back in mine!”

“Don’t you _want_ to frag that guy?” 

“Definitely!” he asserts, which you didn’t entirely anticipate, “But not like, for my first time or anything! That would suck.”

“I thought losin’ your virginity was supposed to be special or somethin,' ' you mutter, taken completely aback by this bizarre turn of events.

“That’s a bunch of slag,” he scoffs, “Virginity shmirginity. I wanna be good at it when I do it with Cyclonus.”

“Huh,” you say, “Yeah, I guess I get that. I been like that.”

“Right!” he says, “Okay, uh, I don’t know the way from here.”

“Oh, it’s like,” you move forward, taking the lead, and you’re several steps in when you realize you’re still holding hands, and you don’t know how to let go now, “It’s like this way.”

“Let me guess,” he says, as you approach your room, pointing to the door whose keypad is covered in huge gaping claw marks, “it’s that one?”

“Deductive reasoning of shoreluck home,” you tell him, nodding, and key open the door quickly. He runs right past you, slapping on the light and jogging to stand in the middle of your room and look around.

“You have a lot of clocks,” he comments, staring at your pile of trainer clocks in the corner, “Neat.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess,” you say, awkwardly. “Alright, are you, uh, are you like, sure you wanna do this?”

“Totally!” he says, and scrambles onto the berth, _your_ berth. “I wanna go all the way if you can figure out how to work it!”

Your winglets flutter in surprise, “Are you- like. Super sure?”

“Yes! Come here and look at this thing!” he says, demanding, pointing between his legs. You weigh the pros and cons for a moment, and wonder if you’re doing something wrong- it’s not like you think casual fragging is _bad_ or anything, but fragging a friend? It seems weird.

“Okay,” you say, since he really wants you too and you can’t think of a good reason not to. You sit cross legged across from him on your berth. “Uh, do you know how to open up?”

“Yeah, I managed to figure that part out,” he confirms, and leans back on his servos, moving his legs apart so you can see his interface panels as they snap open, just like that.

You _do_ recognize this setup! It’s the same one ol’ what’s his face from Garrus-1 had when he was your cellmate, the green fella. Wow, that was a long time ago. 

“Wow, you really ain’t had an upgrade in six million years, huh,” you observe, “So, like, they started makin’ them at some point with like, mesh and silicon and stuff so they would be a lot softer, and they’re rigged into your neural network and not just your sensory network now, so-”

“So?” he says, impatiently, “How do I get it erect? It won’t activate no matter how horny I am.”

Wow, so much for the innocent minibot. “It’s manual,” you explain, “you just gotta- here, move your hands.” You brush his servos out of the way, locating the press point on the base ring of his spike, pushing it in and twisting to the side. 

Tailgate gasps and kicks both legs as his spike pressurizes, arching his spinal strut. “ _Wow_ , okay, how was I supposed to figure _that_ out?”

“I’unno,” you shrug, pulling your claws away.

“What about yours?” he says, sitting back up, “What’s it look like?”

You’ve literally never once in your life felt hesitation to open your interface panels before. He seems to notice your sudden discomfort.

“Unless, like, I totally misread this and you don’t want to,” he starts, speaking quickly, “But like, everyone says you’d frag anything that moved so I figured you wouldn’t mind, but if I’m wrong then I’m really sorry, and-”

“What?” you say, and you don’t know why but _something_ he said really struck a nerve, “You read it right, I _would_ frag anything that moved. Here, look-” you shift your hips and snap your interface panel open. Your spike is semi-pressurized, but you point at it with one claw.

“I got a couple upgrades since my forged set, you know, rebuilt frames and whatnot, but these bad boys stay in their housing ‘til it’s go time,” you explain, “‘Stead of just stay out and all like, flaccid, like that thing.”

“Don’t call it a _thing_ ,” he says, “that’s weird.”

“Okay, okay,” you scoff, “Alright, okay, you wanna go all the way then, yeah? Like, _right now_?”

“Absolutely!” Tailgate asserts, and maybe you should make him stop repeating himself.

“Okay, uh, usually I’m catching, though, so do you wanna bat, or do you want me to-”

“I think I can do that!” he says, rubbing his servos together, “Lie down!”

If you’d thought to yourself to imagine what Tailgate was like in the berth at any point before this moment, you probably would have thought he would be submissive and mewling, maybe even a real starfish, but, apparently, you would have been dead wrong. As you lean back, compelled to listen to him, he leans forward with one hand and puts a servo over the inside of your thigh, smoothing it up toward your spike.

“Uh?” you start, confused, “Whatcha doin’ there, pal?”

“Getting you warmed up first, duh,” he says, as if that were obvious, stroking your spike, and you can’t possibly resist pressurizing _hard_ beneath his servo.

“What for?” you ask, letting your helm thunk against the berth and wiggling your hips to get comfy.

“I read online that if you aren’t ready then it hurts,” he explains, and he’s got his other hand between your legs now, too, touching your valve with his finger tips, prying the lips of it apart and teasing at the mesh within, already starting to moisten. “Am I wrong?”

“Oh, uh, no, you’re right,” you say, because apparently he’s looked these things up, and you weren’t even really concerned about that, like, who cares? But apparently _Tailgate_ cares, for some reason, and that’s weird.

“How’s that?” he asks, pressing a finger inside. His servos are tiny, really tiny, so it’s not nearly enough.

“I can take more,” you tell him, “you got little hands.”

“Comparatively,” he mumbles, and you wonder if he’s self conscious about that, but he pushes two more in, just like that, and you stretch your pedes out with a mewl of delight as it starts to stretch really nicely.

“All _right_ ,” he says, the most self satisfied you’ve ever heard him, “That was a good noise!”

“Don’tchu make fun of me, or I’ll offline my vocalizer, legs,” you warn him, leaning your optic up to glare at him.

“I’m not making _fun_ of you,” he snorts, “It was a cute noise.”

Tailgate is _really weird_.

He moves his hand, thrusting shallowly, slowly in and out, and you let your head fall back again, enjoying the sensation. “Come on, gimme some feedback!” He says, and you online your optic again, staring at the ceiling and trying to think of something not stupid to say.

“Uh, try curling your fingers and- ah, oh, Primus, yeah, like that, ah-” you wriggle, and your vents finally click on, cycling water cooled air through your frame. 

“You think you’re ready?” he asks, and like, you’re always ready, wet or not, but you know what he’s asking.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you say, sitting up on your elbows as he slides his hand back out. You watch with an unblinking optic as he strokes his spike a few times with the hand that was just _inside_ you, and stifle a hiccuping exvent as he scoots forward, one hand on his spike and the other on your belly.

“You wanna push in real slow at first, and get a good ways in, then you can start movin’. It’s better to ramp up and-” your vocalizer hitches when he leans forward, pressing his spike ito your valve, just like you said, slow. He’s smaller than you, in more ways than one, but you don’t have to be Impactor to stimulate all those nodes in there.

He bends over you, venting heavy as he hilts, going still.

“You good?” you ask, when he doesn’t move.

“Yeah,” he says, voice shaky, “It’s just a _lot_ of feedback.”

“Here, let me-” you shift so you can find better purchase, moving your pedes flat beneath your knees so you can pull back and thrust up around him, and he makes a high pitched noise, dropping to his elbows, platelets shaking as you move. You’re only a few in when he pats your stomach again, wordlessly telling you to stop, and you do.

“I got this,” he says, leaning back up and grabbing your hips, and you let him take over again, as he starts thrusting on his own, shakily, at first, but he gets the rhythm of it quicker than you did the first time you spiked anyone. 

As he’s working, he reaches a hand up to steady himself and grabs one of your cockpit guns and you _keen_ , because _damn_ those can be sensitive, and the second he realizes this, he turns into a _demon_ with his tiny evil hands, digging into the muzzle and into transformations seamlines with his fingers, all sensitive nodes and unexplored crevices and you can’t _stop_ your vocalizer from whining static. He overloads before you, grabbing both guns in his fists and _yanking_ them forward as he finishes. The rush of hot transfluid inside you tips you over the edge and you arch your spinal strut as you coat your stomach in your own.

You are panting, staring at the ceiling and waiting for him to finally online his optics and regret this insane interaction, but instead, he _whoops_ like he just scored a headshot and laughs, pulling out of you and sitting back.

“Okay, honest answer,” he says, and you tilt you head to look at him. His visor is bright, “How’d I do?”

“What, at fragging?”

“Yes, at fragging!” Tailgate laughs, “How’d I do?”

“Pretty good,” you admit, “I overloaded.”

“Thank you, internet,” he says, laying back, still panting, you sit up and touch his chassis with one claw. He’s burning up.

“What I tell you,” you comment, “If you ever wanna go more than one round you’re gonna wanna upgrade your cooling system. You’re real close to overheatin’.”

“Noted,” he laughs, offlining his visor, “I’ll talk to First Aid about it.”

“Well, congratulations,” you say, “you popped your cherry, as the earthlings say. Worth it?”

“Totally,” he nods, “When I bag Cyclonus, he’s going to be so buggered by how good I am at this.”

“Heh,” you snort, “I mean you might want a _little_ more practice than fragging me _one time_ to say that.”

“Okay,” he says, sitting up, “How ‘bout tomorrow?”

You full stop. “Huh?”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats, “You can do me tomorrow, and then maybe after that we could try a different position or something?”

“What?” you scoff, “Why practice interfacing with _me_? Go bag your dream mech.”

“I will!” he asserts, “But you’re fun, and after I ‘bag my dream mech’ I can’t really get anymore experience, now can I?”

Well, he does got you there. That’s how the whole monogamy thing works. Not been your bag. You frag, you don’t date. “I guess,” you relent. “Sure, aight, tomorrow, then. But seriously, like, you’re going to melt, so like,” you push him back down flat with one claw, “just like don’t move for a bit.”

“I can do that.”

* * *

You’re genuinely surprised when he actually shows up, sporting a new water cooled internal system. You kind of expected maybe twenty four hours would remind him you’re an ugly empurata head with a valve that’s been fucked by half the Autobots and the personality of an ornery horse, but, no, he is apparently dead set on getting really good at fragging by using you for practice. It’s like, weird, but kind of makes sense, in a weirder way. Not like fragging you means _anything_ , so it does make that kind of sense.

Only, he doesn’t just come back the next night. He keeps coming back, and then not only does he do _that_ , but he starts _hanging out with you_ in _completely nonsexual ways_ , like, just _chilling_ at Swerve’s, or like, reminding you to come to movie night with everyone. That’s weird. It’s really weird. He drags you over to sit with him and Cyclonus and you find your optic flickering constantly to Cyclonus, wondering if he’s figured out you’ve been fragging the guy he wants to do Acts with and if he’s going to try to kill you again, but he gives you a _smile_ which is _so_ unbelievably weird you don’t even know what to _do_ with that.

It’s _definitely_ when he starts dragging you over to sit with him and Cyclonus that you want to stop. That’s when it gets weird. It’s weird enough being fragbuddies with someone you actually like and aren’t really interested in convincing to beat the slag out of you when you ‘face, but it's good weird at first, until, suddenly, it's not, and you aren't even sure why. You want to keep hanging out with them. It's nice having something to do with your time. Primus, though, you aren't stupid, and you know what you're being kept around for. You know what you're worth.

You have no idea what you’re supposed to do about this bizarre development of “you don’t want to frag someone anymore” other than “ignore that and keep doing it anyway” because it’s never happened before, and the days start to get… weird. You keep up appearances, obviously, crazy ol’ Whirl does not have Feelings or whatever, and you will be damned if you tell your therapist _anything_ about this. 

You’re three days into “I don’t think I like this anymore” when you’re sitting alone at Swerve’s and _Drift_ of all mechs sits down across from you. 

“Hi, Whirl,” he says, a boggling set of words. 

“Uh,” you say, looking around for the trick, but you don’t see anything, “Hi?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he starts, putting his arms on the table and folding his palms together, “I’ve kind of noticed something about you that’s worrying me.”

“Uh… what?”

“Do you know what sexual self harm is?” he asks, giving you a bizarrely earnest look.

“What?” you start, shaking your helm, “Do I know what _what_ is?”

“Well, you obviously know what self harm is-”

“Obviously.”

“Doing something to hurt yourself, or punish yourself,” he continues, “Usually physical, but not always. Sometimes it’s self sabotage, or in this case, hurting yourself by doing something sexually you don’t want to, on purpose.”

You stare at him, this bizarre near-stranger sitting across from you talking about this stuff, “What are you talking about?”

“Well, you have a bit of a _reputation_ ,” he starts, which is true, “and I’ve noticed you’ve been… a bit off, recently. So, yesterday, I overheard Tailgate speaking to Swerve-”

“Primus,” you swear, “What, about _me_?”

“Yes, about you,” he confirms, “and I wanted to talk to you, because it felt… familiar.”

You stop, remembering. You worked in Rodion, once, as a cop, and you remember him, when he was still a guttermech hooked on syk and a regular around your station. You wonder if he remembers you from then, too. “What’s your point?”

“Whirl, do you _like_ interfacing?” he asks, the strangest question anyone’s ever posed to you before.

“What? Of course I do,” you shake your helm, “Who the frag _doesn’t_?”

“I don’t,” he says, as if it were obvious, as if it were simple, “and I’m not sure if you do, either.”

“Bollocks,” you say, grabbing the first stupid word you can think of, “I’m a huge fraggin’ slut, what the pit do you mean you don’t think I like interfacing?”

“When you go to the berth with someone,” he says, volume level, “Is it because you _want_ to share an intimate experience, or because you want to punish yourself somehow? Do you do it because you actually want to enjoy it? Or do you get some validation from _not_ enjoying it?”

“What? That’s. That’s-” you stammer, trying to think of a response, “I overload _all the time_ , I definitely like it. That’s crazy.”

“Overloading doesn’t mean you actually _like_ it. You laugh when you get tickled, doesn’t mean you like it either.”

“I ain’t ticklish,” you say, trying to divert him off this insane subject.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Drift says, bizarrely, infuriatingly, “I am only genuinely concerned.”

“Well,” you say, drawing backward, unsettled, “Don’t be. I ain’t like you.”

“Do your old third in command a favour,” he says, patting one of your claws on the table, “And think about it.”

He stands up. He walks away. You stare into your engex, mind swirling with thoughts, confusion, distrust, revulsion, anger, concern. What the fuck was he talking about?

* * *

Tailgate has the password for your room now and he strolls in like he owns the place, closing the door behind him.

“ _Hello_ Whirlibird!” he announces, and you look up from your desk, “Are you _down_ to _clown_!”

“Yeah, gimme a second,” you say, fiddling with the gearwork on the clock you’re making. Tailgate trots up beside you, looking at your project.

“Are you making another clock?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, “It’s real soothin’, you know. Tactile.”

“Huh,” he says, “Can I have one?”

“Their chronometers are off,” you tell him, “They don’t work good.”

“That’s okay,” he says, “They look nice, and they’re like, you know. You made ‘em! That makes them cool.”

“Uh, sure,” you say, setting the work in progress back down on the desk, “You can take one if you want a broken clock.”

“Thanks!”

You stand up, looking over at your berth, and Drift’s servo on your claw flashes in your mind again, “Hey, uh, actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?”

You look back down at him, visor bright, then back at the berth. “Uh… you know. Stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“I’m- I think I’m done,” you say, finally, without looking back at him.

“Done with what? Interfacing?” Tailgate asks, sounding confused.

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” he says, uncertainly, “Okay. Did I do something wrong?”

“Huh?” you do finally look at him, “No.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, because it _is_ , “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” you say, and then suddenly, his optics on you is too much and you cross the room to the door, “I gotta go do some shootin’ practice tonight. Lock up when you leave.”

“What?” is the last thing he says before you key the door open and leave.

* * *

There is a knock at your door.

Who the frag is knocking at your door? No one ever knocks at your door. Tailgate has the keycode and no one else bothers with you. You stand up from your desk and cross the room, opening the door.

It’s Cyclonus. 

“Oh, to the pit with it, if you want to shoot me, can you do it in the morning?” you groan, “I have _almost_ got this stupid thing working.”

“I am not here to shoot you,” he says, cocking an optic ridge at you, “Why would you think I was here to shoot you?”

“Fine, _stab_ me,” you roll your optic.

“I am not here to hurt you, I’m here to speak to you,” he shakes his head, “May I come in?”

“Uh,” you say, staring at him, trying to figure out the trick, and you can’t, “I guess.” You step out of the way and he walks past you. You shut the door behind him. He pulls out one of your desk chairs and sits, looking at you expectantly. You hesitate, and then sit back down in the other.

“Tailgate asked me to speak to you,” he says, and you suddenly regret closing the door. Maybe he is here to stab you after all.

“Oh yeah?” you say, playing dumb, “‘Bout what?”

“He’s worried about you,” he says, “More specifically, he’s worried he’s hurt you.”

“What?” you scoff, “Me? _Me_? I have no known weaknesses, Cyc-cyc, I can’t be hurt, you know that.”

“Whirl.”

“What?”

“I share his concern.”

“So what?” you snap, “So, the turbofox is outta the bag, huh? You know what we been up to and you’re here cuz you don’t like it, huh? I’ll have you know, he ain’t your pet and he can do whatever he wants, including-”

“Whirl,” he says, sounding exasperated, “I’m not mad you two have been interfacing, I am genuinely concerned for your well being, as much as you would like to pretend no one ever is.”

“I-” you start, raising a claw, and then letting it hang there, uncertain, “Uh, I. What? Why?”

“Drift spoke to me.”

“Hrrm,” you clack your claw together, tapping the bottom of your helm in thought, looking away, “Right.”

“I was actually hoping to speak to you sooner, but you haven’t been out of your room in days,” he continues, pulling a cube of energon from his subspace and placing it in front of you, “You’ve been wallowing.”

“I ain’t wallowing,” you say, taking the cube, “I been _busy_ with my _clocks_.”

He pulls a straw out of his subspace and holds it out to you. You stare at it, holding the cube, and for a moment, you feel like you have tunnel vision, and the only thing that exists in the whole universe is that stupid straw.

You sigh and put the cube down, turn toward the desk and folding your arms on it, laying your helm on top of them.

“Alright,” you relent, finally, “Fine. We’re talking about feelings.”

“We’re talking about feelings, yes.”

“Awful,” you sigh, “I don’t get it. If you know we been fraggin’ why _don’t_ you want to stab me?”

“He likes you, and I like anything that makes him happy,” he says, as if it were obvious, “and, if it has somehow escaped your notice, I’ve grown to enjoy your company as well.”

“That’s weird,” you say, “You’re weird.”

“Perhaps. So, the question, then. Have you? Been interfacing for the wrong reasons.”

You grab the straw from where he’s placed it on the table and jam it into the cube, taking a nice gulp. You haven’t refueled in awhile and it settles good in your system, a flood of relief through your lines.

“Yeah,” you admit, finally, “I guess.”

“Do you think only recently?”

“Nah,” you shrug, “Prolly forever.”

“That’s very unfortunate,” Cyclonus says gently, putting a claw on your arm, and you weirdly don’t want to shake him off, “You’ve lived a long time.”

“I guess.”

“Any thoughts as to why?”

You spin the cube in one claw, staring at it, and definitely not at him.

“Same reason you claw your corpse face up,” you say eventually, “It’s a good hurt when you deserve it.”

Cyclonus pauses, but not for long. “Neither you nor I ‘deserve it,’ Whirl.”

“I s’pose,” you twirl the cube again, “But ain’t nobody wanna hang out with a Whirlibird that ain’t put out, anyway.”

“Patently incorrect,” he scoffs, “I’ve spent far too many evenings with you recently for that to be true.”

“Your cuck fantasy don’t count,” you say, even though it’s mean. Maybe _because_ it’s mean.

“Hush,” he says, putting a hand on your helm and turning it to face him. You could pull away, but you don’t. “You are being intentionally inconsolable. You will continue to spend time with Tailgate and I because we value your presence and no other reason.”

He phrases it weirdly like an order, because he’s a bad communicator, but you get the gist. “I don’t wanna be pitied.”

Cyclonus takes a deep sigh and offlines his optics. “Compassion is not pity, Whirl.”

“He’s gonna be pissed at me,” you say, finally.

“Tailgate?” Cyclonus asks, looking confused. You nod. “He’s not pissed at you, he’s worked himself up into a frenzy thinking he’s forced you into-”

That suddenly clicks and you sit straight up, “What? No, oh no, that’s not- no. I said yes, that’s not what happened. That’s wrong. Whatever the hell is going on with _me_ , he didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“What is going on with you, then?” he prompts.

You shake your helm, “What the pit do I know? Do I like it? Is it hippy drippy sexual self harm? I don’t know. I ain’t my psychiatrist. I just wanna make clocks.”

Cyclonus looks down at your half finished clock on the desk. “Why don’t you bring it out to Swerve’s with Tailgate and I and work on it there, instead of hiding in your room? Come be social. It is good for you.”

You stare at the clock and its pieces, feeling bizarrely anxious, “That sounds like a date.”

“Only if you want it to be.”

“That’s dumb,” you say, still staring at the clock, “Who am I even dating? There’s two of you.”

“That’s allowed,” he says, as if it were obvious, “You can date two people.”

You raise your head, staring at the wall as you process that information. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“We just talked about me being some dumb hippy drippy that don’t like interfacin’ though, why would- that don’t track in this conversation,” you say, tapping the table for emphasis.

“Allow me to clarify. Yes, I’m asking you on a date, yes, with Tailgate _and_ I, and no, you don’t need to interface with anyone. Frankly, if you _don’t_ like it, I would prefer you stop doing it.”

You stare at him, utterly flabberghasted. It would have made more sense if he had walked in your room and immediately jumped out the window than everything else that just happened.

“Okay,” you say, because it’s the only thing that makes sense to say.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Okay,” you say again, feeling a little more confident, suddenly, and you reaching for the unfinished clock, “here, uh, pass me that box so I can pack up all these little parts.”

He passes it to you, looking both pleased and relieved, and that’s just like, entirely weird. But hey. Maybe good weird.


End file.
